


어린 날개 Young Wings

by imajimin



Series: MIXTAPE [1]
Category: Stray Kids (Band)
Genre: Fluff, Hongdae Busking, M/M, Music, Seo Changbin and Lee Minho are Roommates, audition, but angsty, high school Jisung, underground rapper
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-20
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-05-09 11:29:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14715177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imajimin/pseuds/imajimin
Summary: –One night while following his regular routine of busking in Hongdae, Minho notices his usual crowd has thinned out and finds they've migrated to watch the new young rapper that's set up next to him.–





	1. 7-Eleven

**Author's Note:**

> Lee Minho has spent the two years since he graduated school trying to make it with a career in dance, working endless part-times and auditioning countless times for entertainment companies. He shares a small, run-down apartment with his friend Seo Changbin, and spends all his nights busking in the most popular parts of Seoul.
> 
> Han Jisung is a high school senior, just a few months from graduating, but focuses all his energy on building his music career. From joining the underground rap community to producing his own tracks, he's impatient to get more recognition and prove to his parents that music is a stable career.

**_PART I_ **

 

It was quite unusual to find Minho standing still.

 

Everywhere he went, his ears could pick up a rhythm and scope out a beat to dance to. He was never still, never tense, nor did the silence interrupt his ever changing form of expression. Dance flowed through his veins, and merely spending a moment without motion felt as if he was going against his biological composition. That instilled a sense of belonging even in places where he was nothing but a stranger to society; the constant rhythm generated such ease.

 

That is, until he found himself opposite his manager during his break one morning. His shoulders tensed at the sight of the distress written on the man’s face, it darkened his eyes and caused the wrinkles by his eyes to crease, his eyebrows to furrow. It didn’t help that he observed Minho silently as his fingers traced the ripped edges of the cardboard box he leaned upon, it made him feel so small. 

 

“I heard you came in late yesterday,” He murmured suddenly, catching Minho off-guard, “Two hours late, Minho, and that’s the fourth time this month.” The man sighed deeply, his hand coming up to massage his temples. The dim light provided by the single light fixture of the storage room made the whole situation all the more frigid, no thanks to the tight space as well, “I told you when you first got hired that you could go to auditions only if you managed to switch shifts with other employees, how many times has your shift been empty?”

 

Minho’s throat felt coarse, “No one was available, and I… ” his eyes dropped to the floor, “I couldn’t let the opportunity pass by. I was so close to making the cut but–”

 

“I’ve told you this once before, kid,” The man’s hoarse voice had raised slightly, making Minho flinch, “You’re very ambitious and passionate, I see that. And your prioritization of your dream is admirable, but…” He cleared his throat and his eyes once again searched for Minho’s, “You’ve put me in a tight spot, son. I’m a manager, a lot of people’s income depend on me and I’ve accepted the responsibility. I cannot allow this folly to continue,” His voice lowered again and Minho held his breath, “I have to let you go, I’m sorry.”

 

The rhythm turned somber. Minho’s fingers that had once been tapping against the box were now still, his breathing slow. Heat filled his chest and the frigidity of the room made shivers course through his spine. He felt as if his lungs would burst from the pressure of his heart beating, pushing and pulsing against them. Not to mention the urge suddenly blackening his vision to let tears glaze his eyes which made him blink quite rapidly, “I understand.”

 

Really, he didn’t.

 

It wasn’t uncommon to find teenagers and young adults trying to pursue a career in entertainment, but the latter had to also worry about  _ living _ . Minho lived apart from his parents, despite his mother pleading him to return home instead of hiding out in that shitty apartment that was barely fit for a single inhabitant, let alone two. He’d promised Changbin that he would, he _ could _ , cover his half of the rent, how the hell would he tell him that he’d lost a job– the higher paying one out of the two. 

Just the thought of seeing his roommate’s reaction– his dark eyes, that most of the time carried bags– a sign from lack of sleep and irregular schedule, drop even lower, his smile fade– slowed him down as he packed his belongings from his small locker in the break room. He’d supported Minho through thick and thin, it made him feel like the relationship was becoming parasitic. Changbin didn’t deserve this, more like, Minho didn’t deserve Changbin.

 

He took a moment to calm his breathing, hoping it would also slow his racing heartbeat that drummed in his ears. With every gulp, he felt its magnitude increase and burden his lungs even further. God, he hated the horrible feeling and unbearable sense of guilt the anxiety caving his stomach gave him. He felt sick to the point of no return but, nonetheless, he still lifted his chin as he walked out the convenience store with his backpack hanging from one shoulder, heavier than when he arrived early that morning.

 

Within the duration it took him to walk the fifteen feet from the entrance of the store to the street corner, he decided it was best it stayed just like that, if he didn’t go home but rather walked to the dance studio. He could even trek the distance the subway he took usually covered, to decrease the time he’d have to spend aloof before his class. Changbin assumed he’d be at work, he wanted to keep it like that. Of course he had to tell him that night, but in the state he was in at the moment, the very act of walking into the apartment before he was due made his knees feel weak, let alone seeing Changbin’s face tinted with disappointment would ensure his breakdown.

 

_ It’s just a job, a stupid job _ , Minho thought,  _ he’s your friend, he won’t hate you… not completely _ .

 

Apart from being a charmer, Lee Minho had quite the passive personality. His communication skills were scanty, it had caused problems with his parents when he was young, with his friends in his mid-teenage years, and with fellow employees in the present time. Changbin had similar insufficiencies, but that oddly generated a deeper mutual comprehension. They sometimes spent days without directly speaking, but it didn’t have a negative effect on their relationship, that was how they worked. An oddity to an outsider’s eye.

 

“Aren’t you a bit early?” Miyeon glanced up from her spot at the front desk at the sound of the door’s bell, her eyebrows rising to hide under her dark bangs.

 

“Aren’t you supposed to be studying?” Minho muttered as he threw his bag to the couch by her desk– meant to be used by parents of course.

 

Miyeon laughed quite loudly, her joyous giggles filling the small room, “You know I don’t have university classes on Tuesdays, and mind your informal language, Minho. I’m older than you.”

 

That much was true, Miyeon was, in fact, a year his senior. But their close relationship permitted him a chance or two to speak informally from time to time, even if she always insisted they should keep the honorifics. Minho sank down in the spot on the couch he’d found a second before and sensing his ad hominem remark had lost its leverage, he murmured a quiet “I’m not  _ that _ early.”

 

Silence captured the situation for a few minutes after that, giving Minho somewhat of a trustworthy sense of relief that Miyeon had forgotten he had another job.  _ Had _ another job. Those moments of restful breathing and closed eyes while listening to Miyeon type away briskly on her cellphone were short lived, for within five minutes, Miyeon jumped up with another question that caused his blood to run cold, “Didn’t you have work today?”

 

“Huh?” Heat rose to the back of his neck as he opened his eyes in trepidation. He knew Miyeon was staring at him because her phone was now resting on her desk. In order to not meet her eyes, nor search for something in the room to observe, he pulled out his phone.

 

“You know, at the 7-Eleven store,” Miyeon’s gaze was burning into the side of his head, he felt it, “Do you still work there?”

 

That small hesitation in her last question allowed him to breathe again and for some unknown reason, relaxed his tense shoulders, “Uh, not anymore. I decided to focus on auditions and find a night job.”

 

His want to avoid the topic had caused him to lie right through his teeth, right to one of his closest friends, without an ounce of hesitation or feeling of guilt. He  _ had _ to tell Changbin the truth, of course, but knowing that his roommate and Miyeon shared no connection whatsoever, there was an alleviation of distress in his situation.

 

The sound of blood pumping in his ears died down and the room was once again filled with silence. All he could hear was the music playing in one of the studios. It was blurred out so much by the thick walls that Minho could only pick up the bass. That enough gave him something to focus on, he built a beat in his mind and his thoughts swiftly vanished to nothing but the lucid rhythmic reality he was in. Up until the moment that his first student arrived gripping his mother’s hand, Minho was stuck in that alternate reality, it could’ve been minutes or hours.

 

Nevertheless, the rhythm was ambiguous.

 

–

 

It was quite unusual to not hear Jisung’s voice.

 

Whether it was talking, rapping, singing, or coming through a speaker or cellphone in audio, his voice was something a lot of people were familiar with. A mere high schooler, stuck in a profound passion for music, had managed to build his own career before he even graduated. That is, a career with only limited recognition and no source of income, but that was enough for him.

 

You see, Jisung was zealous for his music, and he once had lacked the connections to promote it so other people felt that as well. But due to a chance occurrence, where a school assignment led him to perform a self-composed song in an underground rap contest, his music soon took flight and reached the ears of the underground music community. The outside community, however, didn’t have the pleasure. His friends and half a thousand listeners on Soundcloud were the only ones to hear his compositions, that and of course his family and the student body at his performing arts school whenever he was asked to perform for an evaluation or assembly– mostly covers if it wasn’t the national anthem.

 

It was a constant bother to do such performances, almost like an itching feeling persistently tormenting him. It all felt  _ fake _ : the praise, the attitude, the persona he’d created. All but a facade of his false identity, a cover up full of non-stop pretending. He felt a calling in the underground community, like he belonged there. Many of the members of the exclusive community, however, deemed him unsuitable, no matter how far he’d gone to prove his worthiness. The criticism and vituperation never stopped him, but rather built the ever-growing fire that burned inside of him and pushed him to go beyond his boundaries. The word ‘limit’ didn’t exist in his dictionary.

 

He was constantly nagged for lagging behind in school and staying out too late, which was in fact what he was doing at the moment. Instead of writing the two-thousand word essay about the efficiency of solar-powered systems, he was in his studio, on his chair, with his head resting on his desk, and his wrinkled school uniform half undone. It didn’t help that his phone started ringing once he had fallen asleep, only resulting in the lamp falling to the floor with a clash as his head hit against it when he lifted it with a jolt. It was quite comforting to know that the building was undoubtedly empty, he didn’t know the hour, but it was pitch black where it’d once been sunny.

 

“I do trust you’re on your way home right now.”

 

His mother’s stern tone caused his sleepiness to fade and be replaced with guilt. It was nearing midnight, as his laptop displayed, yet his parents were still waiting for him. Ashamed was all he felt knowing that he had napped for an hour or two. Of course, never once did he recall the fact that he had a paper due Tuesday, as in  _ tomorrow  _ Tuesday, until his teacher called him out the following day at lunch and made sure to humiliate him by lugging him to the principal’s office. It didn’t truly faze him the amount of trouble he was in until he was confronted by his parents that afternoon.

 

Regularly, by this time in the afternoon, he’d be making the hour commute from his school to the music school where his studio was– two subways and a bus, to be precise. He would much rather be stuck in the stuffy and packed afternoon train, squished amongst the glum faces with wandering eyes, observing the skinny student with a laptop in his hand and headphones pumping music into his ears so loudly, the beat was picked up by bystanders. Instead, he sat in the living room, his shoulders stiff and eyes not wavering, taking every angry blow his parents’ words had to offer.

 

“You should be grateful that Mr. Mun is giving you an opportunity to turn it in tomorrow, even if it’s for half the points.”

 

The essay was worth a third of his final grade, the grade he needed in order to actually  _ graduate _ school in a few months. Just like many other things, it had never fazed him until he ran headfirst into the negative consequence he’d so generously given himself.

 

“We know music is important to you, but dear god, please be responsible and prioritize your future.”

 

His eyes now met his father’s and almost unconsciously, he murmured, “Music is my future.”

 

It was a mistake, completely and utterly. For now, his dad’s face retreated to a stern frown while his mother’s eyes directly showed him her heartbrokenness, “Honey, music is your dream. But… but that’s all it is, a  _ dream.  _ It’s impossible to achieve a lot as a freelancer, and we won’t be at peace unless you have a steady way to provide for your future family. I’m sorry, Jisung, it’s time to think about those who love you, it’s time to move past this– this  _ fantasy _ .”

 

Jisung cursed the tear that slid down his cheek, turning away so his parents would certainly not see the effect of the harsh words. He took a small breath and attempted to calm the whirling thoughts that were causing the salinated drops to escape from his shut eyes. After some time, his parents walked off to their bedroom, muttering an argument in between themselves, not a single thought directed to their sniffling son.

 

However, they didn’t wait to send him to his room with the strict implication that he needed to write his paper– no dinner until it was done. Jisung, feeling frustrated and angry rather than sad and heartbroken like before, decided what was best to feed those negative emotions– clawing and gnawing at his insides– was simply leaving. His method was comprised of tucking his laptop under his arm and climbing down the fire escape ladder just outside his window. He had locked his door and changed into possibly the darkest outfit his closet could spit out; he didn’t attempt to fold his uniform nor place it somewhere, it ended wrinkled on the floor where he had taken it off.

 

Undoubtedly, Jisung appeared to be the delinquent he made himself to be to the outsider’s eye. He was receiving far more glances on the subway than usual: could’ve been the all-black guise, cap pulled down to cover his eyes and dark mask over his face, save his eyes; or the gloomy expression his face so naturally wore with eyes that were inexpressive yet still stared bullets into whatever they came in contact with. It was the same situation for both subway rides.

 

The bus he took after passed by Hongdae briefly and Jisung suddenly recalled when he’d go with his friends before senior year, even before junior year when his parents agreed to rent him a music studio. He was tempted to climb off at the nearby stop, yet catching sight of his laptop clutched in his hands convinced him against it. Having been tempted by each time the stop button green light blinked, Jisung was shocked he made it to his studio within the forty-five minute mark.

 

The first thing he did, besides tossing his laptop to the chair and sliding down the wall to sit on the floor of the recording booth, was call the contact he’d marked  _ favorite  _ on his phone. The moments in which the low ringing vibrating in his ear sounded so quietly were nerve-wrecking, but he found no explanation why he felt such way. For when the call was answered from the other line, the voice that muttered groggily through it gave his heart such an ease.

 

“I just finished recording for the track, are you available?”

 

_ “Hm, I’m quite busy, how long are you staying?” _

 

The man’s voice made his sentences mash together, almost like he was slurring; Jisung recognized it as his tired voice– when he had been recording too long or spending extended periods of time without sleep, “I’ll probably be here overnight… again. Take your time, hyung.”

 

There was a small pause,  _ “Don’t you have school tomorrow?” _ Jisung was staring at the opposite wall of the booth, his eyes expressed exactly how troubled his thoughts were,  _ “Jisung, you’re not hiding out in the studio because of your parents, right? You know the night custodians will kick you out eventually, where will you go?” _

 

Jisung opened his mouth to reply, and his words sounded so strained, “I was thinking your place, Changbin-hyung, like always.” Ever since Jisung had entered the underground rap scene, Changbin had taken him under his wing in order to mentor and protect him. Jisung’s constant disagreements with his parents resulted in sleeping next to Changbin on his bed or on the couch of his apartment, sometimes they both stayed at Jisung’s studio. Of course this caused his parents’ discontent with their relationship. Nearly a year ago, however, Changbin got a roommate, that meant no more hiding away from home. Jisung still felt displeased toward Minho, whoever he was.

 

_ “Go back home, Jisung,”  _ Changbin murmured,  _ “Whatever the disagreement was, I’m sure it’s not worth complicating your night. All in all, Minho’s lives here now, I can’t just let you sleep here without his consent.” _

 

“You’re so difficult to see these days, hyung,” Jisung replied as his lips began to form a pout, and pouting also meant that his voice changed its tone completely. On occasions only, he’d show his childish side in order to draw people’s attention, mostly Changbin, of course– he truly considered him one of the most important people in his life. Since Jisung’s graduation date was approaching, the older had pleaded him to focus on school so he could finish and focus on music more profoundly. Jisung, however, felt that his academic life coming to an end meant he could relax more in that aspect and put more time into his career, when in reality, it should have been the other way. Changbin had realized this and purposely kept himself busy in order to keep Jisung with his nose in the books rather than stuck on his computer screen, but he knew this time, he was stuck in a tight spot.

 

_ “Jisung,”  _ Changbin murmured slowly,  _ “If I go to the studio, you go home, okay?” _

 

Turns out, Changbin found Jisung in the recording booth when he got there, his sitting position still in tact but his head nodding forward and eyes closed in light sleep. He got rather defensive when the older pushed him to go home and get proper rest, and didn’t take the nagging to focus on school lightly. Jisung’s eyes were half-closed the entire time Changbin was critiquing his track–  he had agreed to do so after realizing Jisung wouldn’t give in– and therefore, ended with his head on the desk as his hyung clicked away on his computer, modifying sections of the track. 

 

Jisung didn’t even protest when Changbin dragged him by his arm to the cushioned chair placed a few feet away, on the other side of the small studio, and laid him to fall asleep again. The studio was filled with Jisung’s quiet snores and the computer’s keyboard clicking endlessly until the younger stirred awake, a good hour and a half later, and insisted they order food. 

 

It was around eight by the time Changbin convinced Jisung to take a bus to Hongdae and purchase a proper meal, which they shared almost silently in a small japanese noodle shop, after which Changbin left him with the payment for both of their orders without a single word. Jisung knew he had to stay true to his promise of going home, no matter how horrible a state he had left it in, Changbin always kept his side of the deal. But instead of taking the bus that had come to a halt momentarily at the stop across the street from the restaurant, he turned away and began to walk the opposite way– the way that led closer to the crowd and blasting music coming from the streets rather than the way home. 

 

The nightlife was quite lively but Jisung was sleepy, so rather than enjoying the bright lights and brushing shoulders with all the beaming strangers, he pulled the cap further down his forehead and the mask further up his nose so the top of the fabric nearly touched his eyes. As he walked through the loud atmosphere with no destination, the flashing lights unfocused his vision and made him feel as if he were walking on a cloud. So airy were his steps, he felt himself being carried by the crowd like a fish by the current. 

 

Never did he notice he’d come to a stop until his eyes found his feet and noticed they’d magnetized to the ground. Soon, his sight travelled to catch a glimpse of where he was and to possibly find the reason why the people around him had suddenly ceased to move in the fluid motion they were part of before. His answer: that young man standing at the center of the crowd, distant from the bystanders due to the invisible barrier the observers had created around him, a small amplifier behind him, his hair tucked into a cap similar to Jisung’s, his face hidden from view.

 

Jisung was intrigued, for some incognizant reason, and the man further piqued his interest when he began to move rhythmically to the music blaring from the amplifier. Inadvertently, Jisung moved through the crowd because the dancer pulled him in almost as if he were tied to an invisible rope. He ended up in the front of the crowd, ignoring the displeased comments of those he had pushed to get to the spot, and his eyes followed the young man that moved so fluidly, doing so barely a few feet from Jisung. He managed to catch sight of the man’s eyes when they found his heedful ones– following his every move, every step, as if he was trying to captivate every moment–  and suddenly his blood froze. 

 

The effect the young dancer’s gaze left him with resonated in his wandering mind and pounding chest, even when he was back in his living room an hour later, in the center of yet another lecture from his parents. Their voices were distant since the beat of the song he had heard as he witnessed the dancer still echoed in his ears, the young man with the cap and potent eyes detached him from the world.

  
  
  



	2. Blood Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blood Moon, a song Minho finds himself caught over, ends up being the reason why his busking crowd has thinned out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a rare chapter where I only write for one of the two, in this case, it's just following Minho

**_PART II_ **

 

His reaction wasn’t at all what he thought it’d be.

 

Minho assumed Changbin would at least give him the cold shoulder or even kick him out when he mentioned the loss of his job. It was common for Changbin to show his disappointment or anger in a silent and discomforting way, making the other feel far more unsettled than words would cause. But instead of such situations, he found himself tucked tightly in the younger’s warm embrace.

 

His roommate usually expressed himself through actions, but physical affection was rarely one of them. It almost made Minho’s eyes sting with relief, and while the tears that threatened to fall never did, his heart still pounded securely and his frozen blood melted and warmed his body, especially as Changbin pulled him closer. He’d admit he suddenly felt cold when Changbin retreated to his original position, and gave him a silent stare that rather than being filled with wordless offenses, his eyes expressed warmth so deliberately comforting that Minho felt the air he’d lost hours before return to his lungs.

 

When Minho returned to the apartment that night, he’d found Changbin on the couch, clicking away on his beat-up laptop, almost as if he’d been waiting for his return. In fact, it was one of the only times Changbin had been awake or present when he returned, especially since his regular arrival time was near midnight. 

 

“How was the crowd tonight?” Changbin had asked as soon as he walked through the door, and almost immediately, he sensed a strange vibe radiating from Minho, as if his anxiety had tinted the atmosphere, the air they breathed.

 

His initial countenance was blank as he studied Minho closely, that’s the exact reason why the hug had been so unexpected, so sudden that it made Minho question Changbin’s state. 

 

“Are you okay, hyung?” 

 

Minho felt the comfort transferred through Changbin’s subtle touch of his hand against his shoulder; the younger’s eyes drooped down lower than usual, a familiar expression of disappointment was now replaced with worry. Unable to voice a response to the question, he simply nodded, allowing the mere gesture to speak the words his trembling heart couldn’t.

 

“I’ll see if there are any job listings tomorrow,” Changbin suddenly murmured as his grasp left Minho’s shoulder and he crossed the room, “Get some rest, hyung, you’ve been out all day.”

 

_ “You need rest, too. You deserve it more than I do.” _

 

Before Minho could utter a single word, Changbin had disappeared through the bathroom door. A subtle sound of water dripping coming through the shut door confirmed the younger’s showering, and of course, that meant he needed time to think. Minho knew the loss of his job didn’t fall so easily as Changbin had taken it. One job less meant less income, the less money, the more they had to stress about  _ living. _

 

Changbin had barely graduated school the year before and he was already facing the inevitable stress of living as an adult, way too early in Minho’s opinion. Of course, being one year his senior, Minho had to take the responsibility of making sure they could manage their living expenses, yet his ongoing absence and busyness working toward his desired career meant that Changbin took on all that weight– most of the time, by himself.

 

Minho suddenly felt a sharp pain against his side. Within a second, he was sitting on the couch, his head in his hands as he broke into a cold sweat, making his body feel freezing and clothes burning. His breathing became labored and his hands trembled like ants running through his veins, his fingertips falling into numbness. He pressed his palm against the source of the pain, which was now coming from the center of his stomach. 

 

He never realized that the ache was a side effect of his constant anxiety, of all the tacit words he never said. It only ever ceased to bother him when Changbin walked out of the bathroom half an hour later, the towel in his hand shaking his damp hair dry, and a serious expression on his face. He gestured Minho to his bed, placed across the main room a few feet apart from Changbin’s.

 

“Please sleep, hyung,” Minho stood up slowly, rather with caution– afraid that standing up too quickly would bring back the pain and cause him another episode, at his roommate’s call, “Don’t worry about the job, yeah? We’ll be okay.”

 

It bothered him that as soon as he turned the lights off, Changbin was sitting on his desk, the small lamp turned on, and the pencil in his hand scratching away on an unknown paper. Minho wanted to drag him to bed, to make him rest and get rid of his bag-laced tired eyes for once. But Minho found himself sleeping within the first few minutes the lights had gone out.

 

Whether Changbin ever went to sleep or not was a curiosity that clouded Minho as he got ready the next day. The moment he woke up, which was barely noon, he immediately felt his roommate’s absence within their small abode. It brought on a guilt-filled weight considering he never let it bother him with the same importance before he went to sleep. When night came and they were once again reunited, he’d be able to tell by Changbin’s gaze whether he slept or not.

 

“You’re early again,” Miyeon murmured as her eyes travelled up from the computer to meet his. Minho pulled his jacket off and threw it on the couch along with his backpack.

 

“Not  _ that _ early,” As soon as his body hit the couch’s creaking cushions, his phone was in his hand,

pulling up his text messages. 

 

**how early did you leave? did you sleep well?**

 

Minho stared at the message he’d quickly typed up, along with Changbin’s ID looking back at him from the screen. His thumb hovered over the  _ Send _ button for a good minute before he sent it. If it weren’t for Miyeon’s gaze burning into the side of his head, he would’ve spent another minute mulling over sending the message.

 

“Girlfriend? Boyfriend?” She asked suddenly, causing him to turn hastily.

 

“Roommate,” Minho replied, locking his phone and tossing it onto the table his feet were propped up on. It made quite the loud bang, but surely it couldn’t get more beat up than it already was.

 

“Is there a difference?” Miyeon added, leaning forward on the desk closer to him, “Isn’t he a rapper?”

 

Minho gripped the sleeves of his hoodie and chuckled quite awkwardly, “He works in production too, but yeah, he raps.” With that, Minho found himself pulling his hoodie off and heading into the dance studio he regularly taught in.

 

For nearly a year, Minho was a dance instructor, for kids mainly, but occasionally got hired to teach privately.  _ Hongdae Dance Academy  _ was one of the only dance studios that hired him without asking for his choreography license upfront– which, of course, he never got. 

 

“There’s a class in there, Minho,” Miyeon called after him, but she only heard the door shut behind him.

 

Minho received a few glances when he walked in, mainly from the students, for the instructor gave him a simple nod and continued with his class. There were fifteen students, most being in the high school age, he even recognized some from the many entertainment company auditions he’d attended. With their young age, he didn’t doubt they got recruited.

 

_ “You’re not too old, hyung, stop saying that.”  _ Changbin would always say when Minho got self-conscious about auditioning beside fifteen and sixteen year olds. There was a lot of truth in it: he was at the age when school wasn’t a problem and he had enough maturity to face a lot of the hardships that came with trainee life. 

 

_ “You’re really special, yeah? Just wait a little bit more, the right company will see it.” _

 

Minho watched the students repeat the choreography they’d been taught for over an hour, standing in the back of the room with almost an aloof mentality. The beats took over his senses and he immediately recognized the familiar urge to follow it. It took him by the hand and pulled at him to pursue it, but the situation caused him to cower. 

 

He shook his head when the instructor gestured at him to join them, denied the students who had begun to call him over, ignored the music that was gripping at his heart with every beat. 

 

Eventually, the music darkened as the song changed. It was strangely familiar, almost nostalgic, as if he recognized it in some distant region of his memory. His mind was blurred as he tried to recall where he had heard the beat, and immediately, his apartment came to mind. Was it Changbin’s?

 

_ “Is that yours?” Minho had snuck up on Changbin one night as he worked on his laptop, “The beat is really good.” _

 

_ Changbin didn’t mutter a disapproval when Minho sat beside him on the couch and snuck a glance at the screen, his arm simultaneously finding a comfortable spot on the younger’s shoulders, “Wish I could say it was mine.” _

 

_ Minho frowned and raised an eyebrow in confusion. _

 

_ “I’m helping a friend with his track,” Changbin cleared up moments later, “This kid is a prodigy.” _

 

He’d heard it coming from Changbin’s laptop one night, no doubt, yet it wasn’t his roommate’s track. He never managed to get out who his ‘friend’ happened to be, and the curiosity didn’t fade so easily. Minho knew Changbin had a lot of connections in the underground music world, yet it was something he rarely spoke about.

 

“What song was that?” Minho caught up with the instructor after the class, unexpectedly so, since the itch to know had bothered him the last half of the hour.

 

“The rap song?” He questioned, pausing to unlock his phone, “A friend recommended it, it’s this rapper on soundcloud,” Minho waited as the man scrolled through his phone, the silence suddenly consuming the room, “Ah, here. It’s  _ Blood Moon _ by J.One.”

 

J.One.

 

The name rang through his head constantly for the remainder of his time at the studio, even after, when he was following his daily path to his busking location. It sounded familiar to the extent that it felt like a distant memory– just like the song. But at the same time, it was so alien that he concluded he had just convinced himself he’d heard it previously. Not even Changbin had said it, or his mind would recall his voice speaking the rapper’s name. It was surprisingly alarming how it travelled in his brain, how it caused him to freeze up completely due to the thought. A single headphone was radiating the warmth of the song into his ear as he walked; the lyrics tugged at his heart.

 

_ I feel my worlds colliding then I look up at my blood moon, I’m fine _

 

“Good evening, I’m Lee Minho,” As he usually did, Minho began his busking with the shortest introduction, “I hope you’ll enjoy what I’ve prepared for tonight, thank you.” A few bystanders had turned his way, naturally since the streets were crowded.

 

He placed the microphone down gently next to his small amplifier, and began scrolling through the music saved on his phone until he landed on the playlist he’d created specifically for the night. Slowly and subtly, the music began, playing so gently, it was almost inaudible within the crowd– drowned out by the nightlife surrounding him. They were songs like this, slow at the start followed by smooth beats and rhythms, that really got his blood flowing in unison with the world around him. 

 

_ Graceful… graceful… graceful… _

 

As if bound to the beat by strings, Minho moved along to the music in such synchronization he appeared like a puppet, his body the medium from which the music was being projected. It was quite unusual for a busk to be made up mostly of original choreography, especially to R&B, but for Minho, is was rare to find him covering dances. This caught people’s attention.

 

The song concluded in a low tone, but soon, the diminishing sound was replaced with applause from those who’d stopped to watch. Minho’s lips grew a small smile as he pulled his cap down to further shield his eyes. With the illuminated LED signs and street lamps all around, the indistinguishable conversations going on, the smell of street food and wet pavement, he couldn’t help but feel how his passion was burning up inside him, a complete contrast to the frigidity of the night. 

 

His breather was short, for within seconds after the first song concluded, the second song in his set began with a sonorous piano note. For the beat of the song, his dance was complicated due to how long the notes drew out.

 

_ Swimming pool sway…  _

 

Beautifully sharp movements took over his body, pushing and pulling him to the soothing rhythm. The feeling of seclusion within the crowd of bystanders was the result of these sensations– he felt individual because of them. He saw the faces and heard the voices, yet they were distant. There was nothing that stood in between him and the music.

 

Well, except that spontaneous static noise coming from beyond his alternate reality and protruding through the sensation he had so carefully built. Minho felt his body tense up slightly as he came to his earthly senses; but instead of searching for the source of such disturbance, the first thing he took notice of was the sudden lack of bystanders watching him. The moment he had fallen into the trance of performing, the number of spectators was quite high, like it usually was. The crowd had completely thinned out. 

 

_ I feel my worlds colliding then I look up at my blood moon, I’m fine _

 

A restless chill travelled and cooled all the heat from his body once the familiar words streamed into his ears from the outside environment. 

 

_ Swim _

 

The quiet sound of applause broke his rigidness, and although his body– controlled by interest, called him to follow the voice wording the song he’d been troubled by, he still continued on with his set. Even as the rapper he now knew as J.One kept drawing in the crowd, he continued as he had planned. Minho even repeated some songs, all to keep himself distracted from the lack of spectators he had now.

 

_ Swimming pool sway…  _

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> does anyone know what songs Minho was dancing to?

**Author's Note:**

> random fact: Miyeon is from (G)I-DLE (they are killer, have lit songs on I AM, and deserve a lot of appreciation. check 'em out if you haven't)


End file.
